One Day, None of This Will Be Yours
No Mary Poppins handbag,
no umbrella or cough syrup
or keychain. You’ll rise up
from the street, the flag
your body has always been
becoming. No heavy pockets,
no rat’s nest of wires, socket
bloated, sparking. No sheepskin
rug, inherited, a robe flopped
down on the floor with no being
inside. No bookshelf disagreeing
with itself about posture, propped
up with a Norton Anthology.
No filing cabinet. No need
to hold onto statements or deeds.
No need for new technology.